


Administrative Privileges

by fatal_drum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angry Sex, Bottom Peter Lukas, Desk Sex, Dom Martin Blackwood, Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Harassment, Spanking, Trans Peter Lukas, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22660942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Peter enjoys pushing Martin.Martin is sick of Peter's shit.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 27
Kudos: 162
Collections: The Magnus Archives Rare Pairs 2020





	Administrative Privileges

**Author's Note:**

  * For [klaxic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klaxic/gifts).



Martin is sick of Peter’s shit. 

It’s bad enough Peter’s determined to feed Martin to his spooky god. Martin’s used to that particular form of bullshit, from the Eye’s existential threat to Jane Prentiss’s very literal hunger. He’s become fairly certain that dodging attempts at murder or possession by eldritch gods is just his lot in life. He’s not sure what he did to deserve this level of karmic fuckery, but he’s dealing with it nonetheless. 

No, it’s not Peter’s attempts to woo him into the Lonely, which are so heavy-handed they could almost be cute (for a given value of cute). It’s how fucking _smug_ he is about it: the pointed reminders of how everyone Martin cared for is gone, how he’s making so much _progress,_ all said in that pseudo-seductive purr. The possessive hands that find themselves on Martin’s shoulders and his waist and the small of his back, casual gestures of ownership that make him want to slap Peter so hard his _god_ feels it. 

One rainy Tuesday morning, Martin’s feeling particularly aggrieved. Peter has vanished the head of HR into his personal hellscape, which is bad enough, except he didn’t bother to learn the man’s passwords first. Now Martin’s locked out of a half dozen administrative accounts, and Pam from IT won’t give him the time of day unless he approaches her with a request signed by Peter himself. 

“Is this Pamela giving you trouble?” Peter asks with feigned concern. 

“Yes,” Martin sighs, handing over the form. He’s filled in everything but Peter’s signature, because heaven forbid Peter be required to do more than the absolute minimum to fulfill his job requirements. “It’s ridiculous. Everyone knows I’m your assistant, and it’s not like I’m accessing these accounts for fun.”

“I could...help you with her.” Peter says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. 

Martin shoots him a heated glare. “Because that went so well last time. No, Peter, I’ll get by without your _help.”_

Peter draws himself up to his full height, looming over Martin like a particularly annoying polar bar. “Do I need to remind you what a _massive_ favor I’m doing for you, Martin?” he asks mildly. At one point, Martin would have been intimidated by the aura of cold menace as the fog rolled around their feet. That point is long past. 

“By protecting the Institute!” Martin snaps. “Not vanishing key staff members who didn’t share their passcodes!”

“Wendell was causing me problems,” Peter argues. “Bringing me all those staff complaints. I don’t have time to deal with that sort of thing.”

“That was his _job,”_ Martin says. “And maybe there wouldn’t be so many staff complaints if you weren’t intent on being a spooky bastard all the time.”

“You know, Martin, I’m getting tired of your attitude,” Peter says loftily. 

“There’s an easy way to fix it,” Martin tells him. “Sign the form.”

“I don’t think I will.”

Martin grits his teeth. “Peter, this isn’t funny. I need those passcodes _yesterday,_ and I’m behind on payroll.”

Peter sits, dropping the form onto the desk before crossing his arms over his chest. “Should’ve thought about that before you were so rude.” 

“What, do you want me to apologize for hurting your feelings?” Martin asks. 

“You and I both know I don’t have _feelings,”_ Peter replies. “No, I’m thinking something more...concrete. A quid pro quo.”

“For doing your job?”

“For doing this _very_ special favor for you.”

Martin imagines turning around and leaving. Tossing the form in a bin, forgetting all about payroll and Pam from IT. Of course, that doesn’t help the families that’ll be struggling without a paycheck. He sighs. “What do you want from me?”

Peter’s gaze slides up and down Martin’s body, as slow and clinging as treacle dripped from a spoon. His meaning is immediately obvious. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Martin snaps. 

Peter grins. “Precisely.”

Martin is done. He’s _been_ done for quite some time, and now he’s reached a state beyond done, a hellish other dimension where his boss is a walking stereotype intent on sexually harassing him in exchange for _doing his bloody job_. 

“You know what?” Martin says. “Fine.”

Before Martin can change his mind, he stalks over and sits in Peter’s lap so hard he makes a muffled _oof._ His hands fist in Peter’s hair, and he pulls him down for a vicious kiss. Peter makes a sound like he’s been stabbed. _Good._

If Martin’s thought about kissing Peter—idly, not out of any sort of interest—he always imagined Peter would be demanding, invading Martin’s mouth like he has the rest of him. Instead Peter parts his lips eagerly, letting Martin take control of the kiss. Martin bites at Peter’s mouth with all the anger he’s stored over months of working together, and Peter moans softly. 

Finally Martin pulls back to inspect the damage. Peter’s pupils are blown, his eyes unfocused, and his mouth is red and swollen. His chest heaves with each breath. He looks thoroughly debauched. Far from putting Peter off as he’d hoped, Martin’s aggression seems to have made him more interested.

“You _want_ me to hurt you,” Martin says, disbelieving. 

Peter recovers enough to smirk. “It adds a bit of spice, yes.”

Glaring, Martin yanks him by the hair and kisses him again, determined to keep Peter as incoherent as possible (for his own sanity), and to stop himself from thinking too hard about what he’s doing. Peter dares to bite down on Martin’s lip, and Martin grinds down hard against his lap in retaliation, until Peter’s gasping and clutching Martin’s arms. Martin rewards him by snaking a hand down between them and stroking Peter through his trousers. 

“We’re doing this my way,” Martin whispers harshly, so close that his lips brush Peter’s ear. “When I get up, I expect you to bend over the desk, arse up, trousers down. Got it?”

Peter nods shakily. To Martin’s shock, he obeys, leaning over the polished wood. It takes him a moment to open his belt and push his trousers down to his knees. His thighs are thick and muscular, covered in scraggly grey hair, and his arse is temptingly rounded. Martin rakes his nails over the cheeks, enjoying Peter’s small gasp.

“I should smack your arse until you scream. Treat you like the spoiled prick you are.” Martin says. He doesn’t miss the sharp intake of breath from Peter. “You like that idea? Figures. Dirty old man.” 

Peter arches his spine, shamelessly presenting his arse. Martin still can’t believe he’s getting away with this. An idea occurs to him. He has to rummage through the desk drawer before he finds what he’s looking for: a wooden ruler, long and flexible. He slaps it against his palm, and hears a satisfying _thwack_ that makes Peter squirm. Perfect. 

“I would tell you to say if it’s too much, but I don’t care,” Martin says, slapping the ruler across the middle of Peter’s arse. Peter moans and pushes his hips out even further, inviting another slap, this time on the tops of his thighs. Martin follows up with a third strike, then a fourth, and the sounds Peter makes are utterly pornographic. Martin reaches down to adjust himself in his trousers before continuing. 

_“Fuck,_ Martin—” Peter groans at a particularly vicious strike. 

Martin grabs Peter’s hair, grinding his face against the desk. “Shut up.”

He strikes Peter again and again, until his arse is red and hot to the touch. Peter groans and pushes eagerly against his hands. “You’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” 

Peter doesn’t deny it. Martin slips his hand between Peter’s thighs. Where he was expecting an erection, he finds slick folds. Martin can work with that. Peter moans and spreads his legs wider, letting Martin run his fingers over his wet slit. When Martin slaps his cock, Peter’s thighs clamp down around his hand, trapping him in place.

“Where do you want me?” Martin asks.

Peter moans as Martin’s hand slides against his wet cunt. “Anywhere,” he growls. “Everywhere. Just fuck me.”

“That’s not very polite,” Martin chides, withdrawing his hand. 

Peter groans in frustration. “Fine. Fuck me, _please._ Now.”

Martin slaps Peter’s arse harder, making him cry out. 

“Get on your knees,” Martin orders. 

Peter slides to the floor, eyes alight with predatory desire. His hands go immediately to Martin’s belt, but Martin slaps them away. 

“Ask nicely,” he demands. 

Instead, Peter leans forward to rub his cheek against Martin’s hardening cock, eyes half-closed. Martin can feel his warmth through the fabric of his slacks. Before Martin can ask what he’s doing, Peter’s tongue laps at his erection, tracing its shape through the fabric. Martin gasps involuntarily, and Peter smiles like the cat that got the cream. 

“Don’t be so proud of yourself,” Martin says. “Get on with it.” 

Peter’s hands make quick work of Martin’s belt, freeing his prick with practiced motions.

“I knew you’d have a good cock,” Peter says, eyeing him hungrily. 

“Shut _up,”_ Martin groans. 

Peter chuckles before licking Martin from root to tip. He sucks the head into his mouth with a contented sound. Martin’s hands curl into fists at his side. 

Before he met Peter, Martin would have been mortified to imagine having sex at work, much less in Elias’s office. But Martin’s lost a lot in the last half year, and that apparently includes his morals and sense of taste. Peter’s tongue caresses the underside of Martin’s cock like it’s his last meal and he wants to savor every moment. Martin’s hips buck involuntarily, and he nearly apologizes, but then Peter moans and drags Martin’s hands to grip his hair. 

_Oh._ Martin seizes a handful of hair and pulls Peter further onto his cock, and Peter swallows him down like he’s starving. Martin’s knees start to buckle. He shoves Peter back, then pulls him back in, watching his cock disappear into Peter’s mouth. Peter can’t suck him properly this way, but he tries anyway, tongue sloppily working his shaft while Martin fucks his face. Martin almost thinks Peter’s getting more out of this than _he_ is. He wonders if Peter’s cunt is dripping for him yet. He wonders if he’s a squirter. He wonders a lot of things. 

He pulls Peter off just enough so he can speak. 

“Do you want me to come down your throat?” Martin asks. 

“No,” Peter says, voice rough from taking his cock. 

“Where, then? Show me.” 

Peter spreads his thighs, revealing the slick folds of his sex, the plump cock begging for attention. Martin’s mouth waters. It looks like a perfect mouthful. 

“On the desk,” Martin orders. “Legs open, face up.”

Peter does so eagerly, presenting himself for Martin’s approval. Sitting in Elias’s chair affords Martin the perfect vantage point. He leans in to bite down hard at Peter’s inner thigh. His teeth leave satisfying marks on Peter’s pale skin. Martin sucks hard at the bite, then moves to mark more of his skin. He can smell Peter’s arousal, thick and sweet, and it’s impossible to resist; he licks between Peter’s folds, seeking the source of the wetness. Peter’s thighs clamp around his head, and Martin slaps them away. 

“God, your _mouth...”_ Peter sighs. 

Why does Peter have to taste so good? Martin finds himself irritated, burying his face in Peter’s cunt until his tongue is inside him, probing the slick walls. Peter jerks and hits his head against the desk so loudly Martin worries he’ll hurt himself, before he remembers not to care. Once he’s had his fill of teasing, he finally swipes his tongue across Peter’s cock, then sucks it into his mouth. 

_“Fuck,_ Martin!” Peter cries, gripping the desk with white knuckles. “Don’t stop—”

Martin derives vicious satisfaction from licking Peter until his chest is heaving, and every breath is half gasp, half whimper. 

“G-give me your fingers,” Peter begs, and Martin jams three of them into his cunt, making him wail. Peter’s incredibly tight, and Martin’s heart races at the thought of that tightness around his cock. Martin’s fingers pump into him hard and fast, until Peter is reduced to babbling, “Martin, _Martin—”_

“Is this why you’ve been such an arsehole?” Martin demands. “Just hoping I’d fuck you over your own desk?” With his free hand, he rubs Peter’s cock harshly. The room is filled with wet, filthy noises as Martin drives into him over and over. 

“Fuck— _more—”_

“Do you think Elias is watching?” Martin asks, forcing another finger into Peter’s cunt. “What must he think of you?”

Peter stiffens under him, clamping down like a vise and gushing all over himself. Martin milks the orgasm for all it's worth, stroking Peter’s cock until he whines at the overstimulation. Peter shudders as Martin withdraws his hand. 

“Had enough?” Martin asks. 

Peter laughs shakily. “Not nearly. I can go all day.” 

“Of course you could,” Martin says, rolling his eyes. “Greedy bastard.”

Despite Martin’s words, he finds Peter’s eagerness oddly flattering. He’s not used to being wanted, even by someone as conniving as Peter. He should probably consider therapy, but what else is new? He fishes out his wallet, digging out the condom he keeps in there just in case. The last one expired before he could ever use it. He tears open the plastic packet, rolling the latex onto his cock while Peter watches intently. 

Martin considers flipping Peter onto his belly and fucking him that way, brutal and impersonal. It seems properly humiliating, if Peter’s capable of such feelings, but it’s also probably what Peter _wants,_ so Martin leaves him as he is. They lock eyes as Martin lines himself up. 

“What are you waiting for?” Peter demands. 

Growling, Martin slams into Peter as hard as he can, wiping the smug expression off his face. Peter opens his mouth to speak, and Martin pulls nearly all the way out before shoving in to the hilt. The only sound Peter makes is a choked cry. Better. Martin circles his hips until Peter moans out loud. Soon enough, he’s set a brutal pace. Peter’s thighs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and Martin grips his hips tightly enough to leave bruises. He hopes they hurt. Peter’s incredibly tight, his body clutching Martin greedily, like Peter will never let him go, and he probably _won’t,_ not until he’s dragged Martin down with him into his Lonely world. The thought makes Martin thrust harder, and Peter grabs Martin’s arms, pulling him close. 

“F-faster,” Peter pants. 

“Do it yourself,” Martin snaps. He pulls out, dropping into Elias’s chair and gesturing to his lap.

Martin’s never seen Peter move so fast in his life, clambering off the desk and straddling Martin’s thighs. He’s even heavier than he looks, pressing Martin into the seat as he slowly sinks onto his cock. Martin grabs his hips, pulling him down, and Peter growls in his ear. 

Peter rides him with a desperation that surprises Martin, fast strokes that drive Martin even deeper before. Martin reaches between them to pinch Peter’s cock, and he clenches down hard. 

“Fuck, Martin, don’t stop—”

After that things go hazy, Martin thrusting up into Peter as hard as he can, and Peter riding him for all he’s worth. Martin works Peter’s cock mercilessly, rubbing and kneading and grinding, until Peter’s breathing is ragged, and his rhythm staggers. For a while, there’s no Institute, no Extinction, no Eye and no Forsaken; just the slap of skin against skin as Peter uses his cock to get off, and Martin lets him.

“Fuck, I’m close—” Peter grunts. 

Martin rubs him faster, determined to make him come so hard he forgets his own name, and Peter groans, laying his head on Martin’s shoulder. The position puts his throat tantalizingly close to Martin’s mouth, and he can’t resist biting down, _hard._ Peter makes a wounded noise and tightens around his cock, spurting all over Martin’s lap. After that, it doesn’t take much for Martin to join him, spilling into him with a low curse. 

It takes them a long time to catch their breath. 

“So,” Martin pants. “You’ll sign the form?”

“What form?” Peter asks. 

Martin looks over Peter’s shoulder to see the form in question, crumpled and soaked with Peter’s come. 

“Bugger,” Martin groans, burying his face in Peter’s chest. 


End file.
